


I dreamt of you long before I met you

by JaguarCello



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, British Politics, Cello, Coffee Shops, Developing Relationship, Enjolras/Grantaire-centric, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Homophobia mention (past), M/M, Meet-Cute, Musician! Grantaire, Mutual Pining, Pining Enjolras, Protests, Rowing, Sad Grantaire, Slow Build, Student Protests, Students, University, student politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 08:54:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4429157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaguarCello/pseuds/JaguarCello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras meets Grantaire on a rainy Tuesday whilst waiting for a bus. </p><p> Things develop. He wants to kiss him with the whole world watching, or paint his name in huge letters down every street; for now, he settles for just watching films on the sofa together, drinking pints at the pub, occasionally brushing hands, sharing umbrellas. It doesn't get any easier, until it does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I dreamt of you long before I met you

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains a brief mention of gay-bashing but it's not discussed in detail - just a head's up, however. 
> 
> The university is based slightly on mine. 
> 
> Les Amis will appear throughout the story, but it will focus mostly on Enjolras and Grantaire. And the north-south divide as experienced when you live in the midlands...

Enjolras saw him from the corner of his eye just as a bus came down the hill and failed to see his outstretched arm, driving past the bus stop with enough speed to soak everyone huddled on the pavement. The rain had been threatening to fall for three days now, and that morning – skies blue-black bruises and waterproof coats at the ready – the heavens had broken. A month’s worth of rain in a day, or so they were saying on the news. Enjolras hunched further under his sopping newspaper and pretended he couldn’t feel the water dripping down his neck or pooling in his socks. The guy turned to look at him, and Enjolras looked away, down the street.

“Hey,” said the guy. Enjolras looked at him, took in the dark damp hair and the yellow umbrella and what were probably impressively muscled arms, and dashed the rain from his eyes.

“Hey,” he said back, and felt a huge droplet of water slide its way down his forehead.

“You look a bit damp,” the guy went on, in a northern accent, “and – well – I have this umbrella, it’s vaguely amusing, and the next bus isn’t for half an hour, so I thought you could share it with me. I’m not a murderer,” he added, and then shrugged. “Up to you of course – “

“That’d be great, actually,” Enjolras said, and moved closer until he could stand under the umbrella. “I’m Enjolras,” and he stuck out his hand.

The guy took his hand. His grip was strong, and his fingers were slightly calloused. “I’m Grantaire. Are you local?”

“I’m at uni here,” Enjolras said. “I’m from Surrey, actually, but I study politics and international relations.”

“Ooh, Surrey? How many horses did you have as a kid? I’m from Whitby, which is famous for vampires and goths and that. I was sadly neither but more of a grumpy cynical emo back in the day,” he said, pushing his hair out of his face.

“Three horses,” said Enjolras, acutely and suddenly aware of his accent. “But I voted Labour in the election, and I’m a member of the Labour party – I’d say I’m loyal to the party but not really the people, at the moment,” and he shrugged. “I’m sorry. Politics and inequality – “

“It’s alright,” said Grantaire, digging around in his pockets until he found a battered packet of Sterling and a lighter. “I voted Labour, although there wasn’t much point voting, was there? We still have a right wing government. We still have inequality and, sadly, Poxbridge – oh, sorry, were you an Oxbridge reject?”

“There’s always a point to voting. People died for that right. And no, certainly not! I looked round but I’m not sure it was for me. The debates in the union look good, but then – “ Enjolras broke off, fidgeted with a button on his coat. “Go ahead and smoke, by the way.”

“Cheers,” said Grantaire, shortly. He lit his cigarette, and Enjolras tried not to concentrate on the way the smoke made his lips look. “Being at this sort of university with a northern accent is tough, actually. I’ve got a mate, Feuilly, he’s from round here, but most of my mates didn’t go to uni. They’ve got jobs in the factories Thatcher didn’t close down, they’re sat down the pub, drinking and drinking – not that I’m one to talk,” and he exhaled another stream of smoke.

“What do you study then?” Enjolras asked, looking for clues. “I have a theory that you can tell which subject people study by what they wear – English is for hipsters, Classics is for tweed jackets, Maths is for trackies and hoodies – “

“It sounds so strange to hear someone say the word _trackies_ in received pronunciation,” said Grantaire. “I study Classics. No tweed jacket in sight and I went to a fairly shitty state school, so there goes your theory. What do politics students wear? Clement Atlee t-shirts, 1984 references to George Orwell, or do you all wear incredibly flattering tight jeans?” He seemed to realise what he had said, and he froze. “I mean – not that you dress like anything at all. You just – your arse looks incredible. Oh God, no, I didn’t mean to say that – “

Enjolras smiled at him. It felt as if he’d not used those facial muscles in a long time. “You’re gabbling. Take a deep breath,” and he watched as Grantaire did so. “And another – better?”

Grantaire nodded. “Sorry, I just – I got gay-bashed a fair bit as a kid, you know? So – saying the wrong thing to pretty strangers is just a little scary. But hey, you’re not hitting me yet. We’ve got a while until the bus gets here – where are you going, anyway?”

“I’m going into town, and I’m not going to punch you, ever,” Enjolras said. “Trains are all snarled up – inclement weather, apparently – “

Grantaire snorted. “Maybe more an act of God. Or the devil. I’m going into town as well, I need to get some decent clothes. Might get a tweed jacket, you know, start dressing like a classicist. And I need to get some new sheet music as well, and a new pair of climbing shoes,” and he tailed off.

“I’m getting a new jumper, and going to the bookshop.” Enjolras said. “This might be a little forward, but – fancy going into town together? You don’t seem to hate me on first sight, which is always promising – and it’s always miserable trekking back from here, especially in the rain. And you have an umbrella, so I wouldn’t need to borrow one – “

“Well, it’d be a crying shame if that hair of yours got any more waterlogged,” Grantaire told him, reaching up as if he were going to wipe a raindrop from where it was sliding down Enjolras’s cheek. He seemed to think better of it, and took his hand away. Enjolras swallowed, and Grantaire’s eyes followed the movement of his throat.

“Right,” Enjolras said, rummaging in his pocket for some change. “I propose we get into town, go to the music shop, the book shop, get some clothes. Not sure where the hell you get climbing shoes from, but I’m sure you know. Then, if it’s still raining and we’ve not drowned, get a coffee or something? I know a great vegetarian place near the cathedral – “

“I should have known you were one of _those_ ,” said Grantaire. “I like lentils! Oh, hey, the bus is here.”

_____________________________________

 

“You can’t honestly be trying to tell me that you’re from Surrey and you talk like that and you can’t play any musical instruments? Like, did your family fail to fulfil the trifecta of a musical instrument, a sport, and like, whatever the hell else poshos make their kids do?”

Enjolras looked up from where he was examining the rosin. “My parents realised fairly early on that I cannot sing, cannot hold a tune, cannot – do all the musical stuff. I had violin lessons for about a year before they actually asked me to stop practising when they were home. I did do sports though – I was good at tennis. Played for the county, but then I broke my wrist ice-skating and had to stop. What about you?”

Grantaire pulled out a piece by Tchaikovsky. “Do I get this one? It’s the one he never finished, so Leonovich finished it. And well, I did recorder at primary school, and then started cello when I was seven. Of course, at seven, I had to have a tiny quarter-size cello, and then as I grew my parents began to regret letting me ever learn it – I bought a full-size one from a mate for fifty quid and it barely fit in my room, but the music teacher let me practice at school. I sing a bit, nothing special,” he said, and looked again at the concerto. “I like rock climbing, but it’s just a hobby. I want to try out for the rowing team, but I need to build some more muscle first!” He laughed. Enjolras hated that his stomach swooped at the sound.

“Do you want to get a coffee?” Grantaire asked, as they left the music shop. He had gone for some Bach in the end - his copy having become tattered with age and practice - and he had chatted with the man behind the counter with such warmth that Enjolras had found himself picturing asking Grantaire out, or Grantaire asking him out, or –

“Coffee sounds good,” Enjolras said, and he smiled. “Once more unto the breach, and all that,” and they stepped into the rain again. Enjolras thought, for a split second, that Grantaire brushed his hand with his own.

**Author's Note:**

> [this](http://41.media.tumblr.com/538cdb5a71dc76ad27ecd7fd812e4490/tumblr_mw8pl9Y80I1r8emoao1_400.jpg) is the umbrella
> 
> here is the cello concerto and one of my favourite pieces (this is just the prelude - the real thing, the full thing, is over two hours and my god it hurts after a while)


End file.
